Infinity Scarves, Panic Attacks & Over-sharing

by Ajike Akande

When I was pregnant with our first set of twins my mother told me that she would pay for me to have a tummy tuck after the babes were born.  Please note she didn’t even qualify this offer with statements like “If you want….” or even the less kind “If you need…”, she just went for the jugular (or tummy, in this case) and assumed that I would both need and want a tummy tuck!  I was offended and shocked and seriously considered calling the feminist police!  This story, by the way, has nothing to do with anything, I just really wanted to share it with you folks because well, an actual person (who I love beyond words), offered to pay for my future tummy tuck.  This kind of thing warrants documentation!   Full stop. 

A few interesting things have been brought to my attention recently:

1.  I over-share on this here blog.  My brother said this.  He’s a nice guy and all, but we have never really seen eye to eye about anything.  This is not only because he’s 6’6 and I am 5’3.

2.  One of my nearest and dearest friends told me that she finds my commitment to the infinity scarf unsettling and annoying.  Something about it being a way that otherwise disheveled parents make themselves look put together.  She declared this truth as though it’s a bad thing.  I thank God every day for infinity scarves and that there is a surefire way to take leggings (yes they are so pants) and runners up a notch!

3.  My unfocussed rambling, out loud and in writing, is charming and adorable.  Nobody said this or probably even thought this but it’s so true, right? 

Okay so before you close your computer and stop reading this nonsense, I’m going to bring this all together.  

Last Saturday I had my first by-definition panic attack.  I actually had my first panic attack after our first baby Isaiah died.  I don’t really count that time because temporarily falling completely apart and shattering like glass is, in my view, not an exceptional response to the loss of a child.  I’m not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, so I could be wrong in saying that what I had after Isaiah died was not a panic attack but I am going with it, therefore making last Saturday’s panic attack my first. 

If you have never had a panic attack, just don’t.  There are a bazillion other, less scary, things to do when you are alone in your house.  I felt like I couldn’t breath.  I couldn’t catch my breath.  My heart was racing; head was spinning.  I thought it would never end.  My mom, who I called on the phone, but could not actually speak to, listened to whole thing.  It was all she could do.  Unbeknownst to me she was getting ready to leave her house while on the phone in case she needed to come over.  I thought I would have to go to the hospital.  But after about 20 minutes the panic attack was done.  I was catching my breath and sipping water.  I was relieved to discover that panic attacks do end and don’t cause actual heart attacks.

I would love to say that my panic attack was caused by some sort of cognitive distortion - that my mind was focusing on something that isn’t real or awful or that I was letting a fear take over.  The truth is, I was trying to solve some very real problems – how to ensure that there is always someone available to be one on one with Miss O, how to approach Z’s teachers about the fact that he is seriously behind in math, how to support Wife in her efforts to spend quality one on one time with G-Dog whose anxiety goes through the roof when she is being separated from her siblings, how on earth to stop Mr. Lee from calling me a Butthead and about a million other things.   With the pressure of family time (nuclear and extended) over Thanksgiving it was all too much.  

Not that long after losing control of my body and thoughts during a panic attack, I was back to mothering as Wife and the kiddos came busting into the house after riding scooters.  We played and got on with the business of being a busy, chaotic pack.  Naturally, I dawned my infinity scarf.  I looked like I had it all together.  I didn’t, but nobody could tell.

 

On Tuesday I had an appointment with my psychiatrist (This may be what my brother was referring to when he said that I over-share!).  Feeling that feelings of intense anxiety – not full-blown attacks but serious anxiety, were becoming a consistent part of my days, I decided I wanted to ask for a prescription for Ativan.  This seemed like a reasonable thing to help me get through those moments when I couldn’t just breathe through the anxiety.  Unfortunately, the challenges of asking for psychiatric drugs is not lost on me, so I was worried about how “the ask” would go.  I posted this on Facebook:

Because my friends are awesome, I received some hilarious suggestions. 

This is what I chose to wear:

Not seen here: black skinny jeans and colourful canvas shoes (conservative with a touch of cheery)

I considered the look featured below, but with the scarf, I just thought I looked too together, and that she would think I was possibly asking for the drugs to sell not for personal use! 

I guess I passed the imaginary test.  I got me some Ativan.  I have not filled the script.  The yoga breathing, that I have never and likely will never use while doing yoga, seems to be working.  I am aware more aware than ever, how much time I spend on looking like I have it all together.  I needed my Facebook family to help me decide what to wear to the psychiatrist, after all.   The makeup and sparkly jewelry, the scarf and the well-timed sarcastic remarks make my depression and anxiety really palatable to those around me including the people who are in positions of power with the ability to directly impact how I manage my mental health.  I “pass”.  I have access.  I have education and knowledge and money.  I have confidence.  With this power and access, I am able, with far greater ease than most, to care for my babies and myself.  When not in the middle of a panic attack or one of the many frustrating and hard parenting moments I face every day, I remember this privilege. 

My take away from this post?  (I’m pretty sure I write just to find the answers to my own burning questions.) 

1.  Buy more infinity scarves and know that sometimes I wear them because well, fashion, but sometimes they may also double as a mask.  I am not the only parent using this (or another) mask to look like I've got it all together.  The parents that we see at the park, in the grocery store, at work, who look like they’re doing just fine, may not have it together at all.  They may be employing the "fake it ‘til you make it" strategy just like me. 

2.  Be aware of the privileges that I hold that make it never easy, but probably easier to deal with my mental health issues. 

3.  I am doing fine without a tummy tuck.  Thank you very much! 

4.  It is totally reasonable to cut my hair every two weeks, even if I have hardly any hair to begin with, because it makes me look like I have it all together and it makes me feel hot! 

Gotta go.  My barber is calling me to the chair.  Not even making this up.  

XO Ajike

Halle Berry Talks About Having Mental Illness and A New T.V. Show

by April D. Byrd

Yeah, So Halle Berry doesn't have a real mental illness...(that we know of), but in her new movie role Frankie & Alice, Berry will be playing a woman with severe split personality disorder, Medically termed Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). Based on the true life story of Frankie Murdoch, the film is being re-released by Lionsgate and Codeblack films. Halle talked with Extra in an interview and discussed what created her interest in the role, her new baby, and also her new T.V. show. Her new T.V. show Extant will be directed by Steven Spielberg.




The Movie Frankie & Alice was originally released in Canada in 2010. The movie captures a woman's struggle to remain herself while fighting with not one, but two alter egos:  a 7-year-old kid "Genius" and a Southern White Racist woman named "Alice". Berry will be taking the issue of women  "playing many roles" to a whole different level. Frankie & Alice hits theaters today!

 Check out the trailer (below)...



Will you being going to see the film? What are your thoughts on the movie? Leave a comment below and be sure to follow up on the conversation on Trey Anthony's Facebook Fanpage.

MONDAY MOTIVATION: Living in Silence - Black Women and Depression

Why do I need to see a therapist, I am not crazy?!.. No one in my family speaks to a therapist - we go to church! God will handle any of my problems...That girl is so crazy, she needs to go to a therapist so they can medicate her...Nothing is wrong, I'm FINE.

 

Black women and women of color are 60% more likely to suffer from mental health disorders. Surprising? We don’t often see this image in the media or up for discussion. Mental health has always been seen as something that’s a “white issue” or that’s what “they” suffer from, not us. We are people of strength, endurance and resilience that have collectively and individually been through too many struggles to let emotion get to us. How can something as intangible as our emotions or mental state cause feelings of depression and wanting to give up on life? But most of us live in environments where our feelings aren’t given any weight and our emotions are somehow a measure of how much faith we have. But sometimes life has the tendency to pile things on. We keep pushing it aside because we have to wake up every morning and face the world. But then pushing it aside leads to a messy pile of emotions that become unbearable to handle.

The world around us tells us that feelings of fear, anger, jealousy, and confusion are the bad emotions of weak people. But, depression is a slippery slope that we can all head down if we don’t take the time and effort to check in with ourselves. No matter how spiritual / religious you are, or how much love and support you receive from family / friends, sometimes you need to seek outside help. Ladies, therapy is not a bad word.

Last week I had the opportunity to attend an event put on by the Women’s Health in Women’s Hand’s organization. The event was to launch their Mental Health initiative – an initiative started because of the realization that it is the number one issue that women come to their organization for. Although, there is a silence in our community in speaking about mental health, the numbers they receive seeking help screams out the need for more programs like this.

The event featured an awesome lineup of speakers – author Kim Green, author and psychotherapist Farzana Doctor, and author/poet Staceyann Chin – who are all wellness advocates and very active in breaking the silence and stigma around mental health in our community.

The room was filled with such support, laughter and sharing as the panelists were very candid about their own experiences as well as members from the audience sought clarity for their own issues. It was beautiful to see a room full of women who were unashamed, open and willing to be so vulnerable.

The message of the night that was made clear that seeking help is not about being medicated, as often times doctors try to diagnose and push prescriptions. Seeking therapy is about accepting that the load you are carrying is too heavy to carry by yourself.

So, take this week to get silent, check in on your mental and emotional state. Are you really fine or have you just become too used to saying it? If praying, meditating, speaking to a pastor or friend works for you then do that. But, if all of those things still don’t seem to be enough to calm what you feel, don’t be afraid to ask for help. The strongest sisters are the ones that are the most willing to be vulnerable.

Have a happy and peaceful Monday!

Safia

P.S. To learn more about the Women’s Health in Women’s Hand initiative visit here.

 

Autistic Boy Bullied by his Teacher...smh!

Imagine being a child going to school everyday with teachers that bully you.  No, no, you read it right,  TEACHERS that bully you.  That is what one 10 year old autistic New Jersey boy dealt with seemingly silently until his father placed a recording device in his pocket.

Dad, Stuart Chiafetz, claims he did that in order to find out why the school had reported that his son was acting out and hitting teachers.  

He found way more than he bargained for.  He listened to over six hours of recordings of teachers and teacher aides apparently talking about alcohol and sex in front of the class and yelling at his son telling him to 'shut your mouth'

In the recording you can hear Akian ask about seeing his dad. It appears that his parents have joint custody and he sees his mom for a period of time and then his dad for another.  And naturally, there is an adjustment period that he would have to go through where he needs a little more reassuring than others. He asks his teachers if he is going to 'see Dad after mom' and the teacher says 'no' asks him about library books then call him a 'bastard' after he begins to cry.

These are the people who are supposed to protect, nurture and teach our children?

The board of education did step in immediately after receiving a copy of the 6 hour recording and the teachers have apparently been disciplined, but is that enough?

Now, I'm not saying, by any means, that every time a child does something that seems out of character it's the school or teachers fault (because lets face it, some of Bebe's kids are still running around haha) but as parents you should stand up for your kids.  Looking around it seems as though parents are (generally) less involved nowadays as the pressures and demands of making a living have become greater.  

It troubles me know that had Akian's dad not stepped in, he probably would have been labelled as another 'problematic autistic boy' and his story would turn out very different.

Stuart's YouTube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfkscHt96R0

read more: http://blackandmarriedwithkids.com/2012/04/nj-dad-exposes-teachers-after-placing-a-recording-device-on-his-autistic-son/

The Craziest Thing I've Ever Written

It's mental health week this week and I thought it would be the perfect time to share this with you.  This  article is the hardest and craziest thing I've ever written.  I hope that it sparks a conversation for you at home, at work, or with your friends and/or family.  We don't talk about mental health as much as we need to in the Black community and whether we want to believe it or not, we are affected by mental health too.  Please take a moment to read about my uncle....hopefully my story will help you to talk about yours.

The Craziest Thing I've Ever Written
T. Anthony
dedicated to my grandmother

I bet you didn't know my uncle is Jesus? He is the Soul Destroyer! He is under surveillance by unknown sources. He yells on public transit that he is GOD! Often, when he forgets or refuses to take his medication he leaves me long rambling phone messages threatening to blast my soul to hell with his super powers! When I finally answer the phone he holds me captive for hours, reciting bible passages. His vile homophobic rants sometimes make me cry. I'm the biggest sinner he knows, his queer niece, and he needs to save my soul before it's too late! I want to hang up and erase his messages.

I no longer recognize this crazy, yelling, incoherent person, yet I know buried deep somewhere inside the madness of his mind, the real him is frantically trying to get out. He desperately needs someone to talk to, who will listen to him, love him through the voices that are in his head. These voices take over his tongue, keep him pacing the floor at night, having full conversations with himself, by himself. These voices encourage him to take strangers home to his one-room government-assisted apartment so he can preach to them the word of God. These newly recruited "disciples" will often rob him of his few precious dollars and his simple possessions, and afterwards they laugh at him, mock him and call him the "Mad Man of London!"

My grandmother has asked me numerous times to write a play, a movie and/or a book about mental health. She has begged me to write about my uncle, write about who he was. But I couldn't. Found my shame got in the way of my crazy love for him. Because before he was the "Mad Man" who prowled London streets barefoot reciting biblical passages, before he was the Soul Destroyer, and way before schizophrenia took over our lives, he was my lovable, handsome uncle Cee.

The man who rewound Thriller nearly twelve dozen times so his daughter and I could learn the words, and he could teach us the dance moves. Cee taught me how to moon walk! He was a brilliant dancer who could mimic every single Michael Jackson move. He was a tall, chocolate, dark brother, with white sparkling teeth, a mischievous chuckle, and the slickest dresser on the block. He made me proud that he was the guy on the block who everyone looked up to because he made it -- made it the legit way. He was a hard worker, sometimes working two, three jobs. He owned his own home by 22, lived in an upscale neighborhood, drove a Porsche, had a beautiful wife, and beautiful kids. He faithfully picked me up every other weekend to take me to his fancy home so his wife could braid my hair in the latest styles. He gave me money for school dinners, ice cream, taught me how to roller-skate backwards! He was a father figure to me, my biggest role model. He sat me down and gave me motivational talks on the value of hard work. I was in awe of him. He had big dreams. Crazy to think I was a true believer. Crazy to think we didn't see crazy coming. But schizophrenia snuck up on him and robbed him of his wife, children, and life. Schizophrenia stole our biggest living dream.

And I am ashamed of my own shame in dealing with his illness. Cee has been my dirty little secret. The person I do not talk about in polite company. Last year, Cee called me a few months before Christmas. He was taking his medication so the conversation flowed more naturally between us, and I was reminded of why I loved him. He expressed to me that he was lonely; he didn't want to spend the holiday season alone in his dingy flat.

So I impulsively invited him to come to Atlanta to spend Christmas with me. Before the words were out of my mouth, I was filled with regret. What would my upscale neighbors think if Cee decided to not take his medication and walk across their fancy, manicured lawns barefoot reciting bible passages? What if he started spewing his message of homophobic hate, loud enough for my neighbors to hear? What if he became emotionally and verbally abusive again? Would I be able to handle his behavior by myself? I knew that if I called him back to renege on my invite this might be the new thing that would cause another one of his "setbacks."

Cee called faithfully every week, excited about our upcoming visit. My stomach turned. Three weeks before Christmas, he was hospitalized. He had stopped taking his medication again and had taken another unwelcome visit to his ex-wife's house. He wanted to see his estranged children. His frustrated ex-wife called the police, and they threw the crazy man back in the hospital. I was relieved. No Christmas visit. My secret was safe again.

However, there has been times when my world and Cee's world have collided and it has been a beautiful collision. When my play," 'da Kink in my Hair," opened in England, I nervously invited Cee to the opening and to a private dinner that was being held in my honor. I will never forget the look on his face, how eager he was to be a part of something, finally a welcomed member of society! He came with my beaming grandmother. He was a bit overdressed for the occasion but looking handsome.

He sat at the table and I held my breath. He was charming, overly chatty with everyone and maybe someone with a keen eye may have noticed that something was a little "off" with him... but he was there, and he was my uncle, and I wanted him to be there to experience my normal. I needed to have this new memory of him, laughing and drinking expensive champagne, talking, eating, feeling accepted, living this life that should have been his. Me, believing that if he was a part of my normal that maybe this would distract him from the voices in his head, the craziness of his world. I wanted to make him forget all that he had lost. Make him feel alive again. It was a beautiful night. I caught glimpses of him, the old and the new Cee, and I shamelessly loved him.

I often talk aloud to myself; sometimes in the shower I have full conversations with myself, by myself, going over my long daily to-do list. I talk to strangers on the bus. My brain never shuts down. Insomnia strikes me often. I pace the floor when I'm stressed. I've been told I over think things. I turn on music in the wee hours of the morning to quiet my thoughts and to stop my brain from reeling. When I catch myself doing these things, I get scared. Is it possible that Cee's illness is going to strike me at any minute?

I constantly worry that there will come a day when my children will no longer wish to see me, when my niece will worry more about what her neighbors will think than about my own wellbeing, that my mother will only talk about me in the past tense, and that people will whisper and stare at me, and call me crazy. And l worry that I will call my family members late at night, threatening to banish all their souls to hell! I wonder if they will they be ashamed of me? Ashamed of their own shame? Maybe. But I hope they will love me through their shame, love me in a passionate, crazy, mad, kind of way.

http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/trey-anthony/the-craziest-thing-i-have_b_1267815.html